Black Hole Sun
by Emari-chan
Summary: A Good Omens song!fic set to Soundgarden's song, Black Hole Sun. Crowley has a thing for Aziraphale, but the angel has a hard time believing it. Meanwhile, a certain demonic Duke is out for revenge for the events of a certain Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. Was supposed to be a brief-ish oneshot, but ended up being an obnoxiously long one. Oh well. Fluffy slash.


Oh look, a fanfic of mine that _isn't _Les Mis. How amusing. This is technically my first GO fic, though my friend and I are currently composing a much longer one together. Everything I write is slash. This is not an exception, so if you don't like that sort of thing, don't read. The numbers in parenthesis indicate that one should scroll down to the end of the section to read the footnote of the same number, since is some sort of anathema to asterisks.

Enjoy, and please review. Constructive criticism is appreciated, while flames will be screencapped and mocked. Thanks.

EDIT: I originally had the accompanying "Black Hole Sun" lyrics at the beginning of each section for clarity's sake. _However_, I was just contacted and informed that despite the fact that this is a fanfiction website, direct use of copyrighted material is prohibited, so I've since-forth removed the offending lyrics. The break-down of the story is easy enough to follow - essentially, each section is inspired by each verse of the song, in chronological order. In case it's still not clear, I do not own Soundgarden or Good Omens. Obviously.

* * *

Nothing about Anthony J. Crowley screamed "demon" as he sauntered up to the door of Fallen Angel Books. His coal black suit said "business casual", and his shades, while giving him the sort of bad-boy air that made hormonal teens(1) swoon, did not exactly cause one to envision legions of malicious imps or unspeakable tortures beyond that which might occur in the back of a particularly BDSM bedroom. Granted, he had an aura about him that jumped up and down screaming at passerby in vain attempts to warn them of the danger, but mortals who hadn't strangled their intuition with coffee and TV were a rare sight these days(2).

No, as it were, Crowley looked like nothing more (and certainly nothing less) than a man, though if he, in a less-than-fortunate mood, decided to peer ever so disdainfully over the rim of his sunglasses, anyone in the vicinity who caught a glimpse of his golden, serpentine eyes would have a sudden overwhelming urge to not be in that vicinity any longer.

A small silver bell tinkled as Crowley pushed open the bookshop door, squinting into the dim, slightly dusty room.

"Aziraphale," he began, moving to shut the door behind him, "didn't I tell you that I find little bells to be absolutely infuriating?"

Across the room, behind the counter, a second youngish man with silver-blonde hair looked up from a heavy volume he was perusing.

"Only every time you walk in, dear." There was a slight hint of disapproval in his voice. "But I told you - I just watched It's a Wonderful Life, and -"

"I know, I know," Crowley interrupted. "The bell thing. I got the concept." He dropped heavily onto a stool on the counter's opposite side. "It's just that you watched that movie over a month ago now, and I'm starting to think that you're leaving the thing up because you know I hate it. Bloody cheerful little bugger."

He glared at the offending instrument, which decided then and there never to ring again when Crowley entered the room, no matter how sweetly the angel made up for it afterwards.

Aziraphale sighed, shutting the book with a weighty thud(3).

"What are you doing here, Crowley?" the angel asked. "It's a little early for dinner, wouldn't you say?"

The demon opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again. Come to think of it, why _was_ he here?

"Dunno," he replied vaguely, running a pale hand artfully through his hair. "Woke up. Got... bored."

_Bored_ was not exactly the correct term. _Lonely_, a small voice in his brain supplied helpfully. Crowley mentally plucked said voice out of the vast expanse of his consciousness and crushed it.

"Oh." Aziraphale blinked owlishly at his demonic counterpart. "Did you have something in mind?"

Crowley turned and stared out the window at the road, watching the centipede of taxis crawl through the traffic. Heat shimmered in waves off the pavement.

"Nothing in particular," he heard himself replying.

"Well, I was reading," the angel informed him tartly. "This is a brand new manuscript, and I don't care to be interrupted just to listen to you whine. Go tempt some mortals or something."

Crowley looked over his shoulder, a single eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Are you actually encouraging me to go and tempt people?"

Aziraphale's cheeks colored slightly; he always had been an easy blush. Crowley relished the soft pink of his skin, smooth and chaste and unbearably - Somebody help him - _tempting_. It just wasn't fair. The angel had absolutely no right to get under his skin like this - it was an itch that even shedding couldn't scratch. Aziraphale's eyebrows lifted slightly and Crowley realized he might have, maybe, been gaping a little bit. Suddenly feeling too warm even in the cool book shop, he felt the need to get out, to leave and sit - alone - in his air-conditioned flat until his thoughts decided to behave themselves for a change.

"Right, er, well," the demon stammered. "I'll be off, then. Didn't mean to, er, interrupt your reading. Dinner, still?"

"Certainly, dear," Aziraphale answered. Crowley could practically hear the angel thinking(4) as he attempted to puzzle out whether he had just received an apology.

"See you at 7:00, then," said Crowley, his composure returned. He gave a backhand wave and was almost to the door when the angel piped up behind him.

"Could we make it 6:00 tonight instead?"

Crowley smiled, still facing the door. It was not a serpent's smile; it was almost happy.

"Alright," he said, and left.

...

(1) Not all of them girls

(2) Crowley considered such folks to be abysmal failures on his part.

(3) Later that same day, there was a tsunami off the coast of Japan. Once again, chaos theorists pushed the blame on some poor butterfly in Madagascar. The angel never made any mental connection, but took a trip to Japan anyway for a month's worth of humanitarian aid due to a nagging feeling of guilt.

(4) Crowley had the capacity to read human thoughts and to warp them, and he had a vague understanding of animals, dogs in particular. This was not an ability that extended to his fellow immortals, though he could normally sense the relative moods of higher beings, particularly when he was in danger of being discorporated. The demon was never sure if this was an actual _ability_ on his part or if he had simply had too much experience with being ripped out of his mortal shell.

* * *

At 5:59 precisely, Crowley was parking his Bentley in the "no parking" zone outside Aziraphale's store. Some people would have considered this a physical impossibility, given that he had left his flat at 5:57, to which Crowley might have responded with a casual shrug and a gentle pat on the hood of his beloved automobile. Some people also might have considered the demon's prompt arrival a sign of politeness, eagerness even, to which Crowley would have responded with a vehement glare that very quickly would have convinced the hypothetical speaker to go cower in the back corner of the closest religious institution.

With an air of unshakable confidence, Crowley stepped smartly onto the pavement and threw open the door much as he had that afternoon. This time, though the bell swung on its chain, it made no noise whatsoever and Crowley's smile widened. Aziraphale was bent over, carefully reordering his card catalogue(1). When he heard the door, he started, dropping a stack of cards across the wooden floorboards.

"Crowley? I hadn't expected you for another ten minutes, at least. Isn't 'fashionably late' the trend these days?" the angel huffed as he scrambled to gather the small notes.

If Crowley was honest with himself(2), he was pleased with the moment's discord he had created. That had, he assured himself, been the sole reason he had come on time for a change.

"Well," the demon answered, stooping down but not bothering to help, "I've got to do _something_ to keep you on your toes. Can't have you getting complacent or anything." He poked the somewhat pudgy angel in the side. He knew Aziraphale hated it, which of course failed to stop him, and he had a point to make.

The angel glared at him. "You wouldn't have just poked a Principality, would you?"

"No," Crowley replied with mock seriousness. "I believe I just poked a Principality and _Guardian of the Eastern Gate_." They stared at one another for a minute before Crowley lost it and begin laughing, first quietly, then uncontrollably. Aziraphale, after a moment, cracked a smile and joined in.

"What..." he asked breathlessly, "are we... laughing about?"

Crowley shrugged helplessly, wiping some of the mirth from his eyes. He held out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, the angel took it. Pulling Aziraphale to his feet, Crowley bowed them out. On the sidewalk again, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, the demon grimaced. It was so damned _hot_, the sort of hot that only came in the dead of summer. The sun would not sink for yet another four hours, and the pavement radiated residual warmth like London's own personal furnace.

As always, Aziraphale held open the Bentley's driver-side door and Crowley sank into the black leather seat, which, given the temperature, would have been nigh-on unbearable for a human. Crowley didn't care. He was used to heat. It just had a tendency to also recall uncomfortable memories.

The Ritz was relatively quiet, and neither half of the pair minded in the least. They placed their customary orders, called for a bottle of deep red Bordeaux, and settled into a quiet that degenerated from comfortable to awkward in the course of ten minutes, a new record for their dinner outings, at least since the establishment of the Arrangement.

Crowley couldn't stop himself stealing furtive glances at Aziraphale, and it had taken the angel less time than usual to notice.

Sipping his wine, Aziraphale peered over the rim of his glass at the demon watching him behind steepled fingers.

"How was your afternoon, then?" His tone came off somewhat more brusquely than usual; something about Crowley's attentions made him undefinably nervous.

This time it was the demon who started.

"Dull," he said after a moment.

Aziraphale looked at him skeptically. "No new wiles I need to be thwarting?"

"Not particularly. Though you might give thwarting my insomnia a try."

Crowley replied in his usual suave manner, leaving out the fact that he wasted the last three hours lying in bed on top of the covers, staring blankly at the ceiling, unable to purge his thoughts of desire (not an unusual state of mind for a demon) and grudging affection (a very unusual state of mind for a demon) from his head.

"I doubt I could do that very effectively," the angel said, taking another sip of Bordeaux. "I don't know anything about sleep."

Crowley's mind said_ "I could show you a thing or two about ssssleep"._ His mouth, being distinctly less brave and with a greater instinct for self-preservation, just murmured something non-committal. The angel cocked his head.

"Are you alright, dear?" When the demon looked up at him sharply, Aziraphale shrugged his slender shoulders. "You're just being... unusually polite, aren't you? I mean, I rather left that last open for one of your dirty jokes and you didn't even bother."

At that moment, the waiter appeared with their respective orders and Crowley wondered briefly if there was such a thing as Divine Mercy after all. It wasn't as if he could exactly say, "I'm bloody in love with you," to the angel. The sentiment alone was probably stomach-turning enough to kill him, but beyond that, he had a deeply rooted suspicion that the angel wouldn't believe him. Heck, Crowley didn't know if _he_ believed it some nights. Lust had always been a one-sided component of their relationship. After all, he was a demon; that just went with the territory. One had an instinctual desire to take anything that moved to bed.

The Apocolypse-That-Wasn't had changed things, however. The rush of fear he'd felt at seeing the angel's burning bookshop, the camaraderie of staring Death(3) in the face, the rush of affection when Aziraphale had stood next to him even as Lucifer was burning his way through the earth - all of it resembled the feelings attributed to love by humans. Perhaps, Crowley thought absently, things hadn't changed so much as they had shifted perspective. Nearly getting permanently discorporated before being rescued by the Antichrist certainly had the potential to make one look at things differently.

"Er, Crowley, dear..."

The demon snapped to attention and realized he'd been trying very adamantly to feed himself through his cheek. Sheepishly, he brought his fork to his mouth. The quiche was delicious. Tonight, though, it tasted like ash.

"Distracted?" the angel asked, chin wrinkling as he frowned very slightly. It was appallingly adorable.

"Er... Just a bit, yeah," Crowley sighed, dropping his fork on the sterile white napkin. "Actually, this whole evening... Well, I guess I..."

The angel looked, if anything, more puzzled than ever.

"You what?"

"Well, I suppose I wanted... Let's take a walk."

"Now?"

"Yes." Crowley repressed his intrinsic hiss as best he could. He'd had an idea. A wonderful idea. An idiot idea. A hideously sentimental idea. It was perfect. But it wouldn't do to offset it with an obvious reminder of who - of _what_ - he was.

"But... dinner!" Aziraphale cast a melancholy glance on his penne. He looked up and Crowley was already halfway out the door. The blonde man sighed and drew a wad of cash from his pocket(4), leaving it on the table as he half-jogged after his friend.

Outside, Crowley was a veritable ball of energy, bouncing on the heels of his feet as he strolled down the pavement. The setting sun cast an orange glow across Soho as he led Aziraphale around the block to the nearest park.

"Why..." Aziraphale panted, forgetting for the moment that he actually didn't _need_ to breathe heavily, "...didn't we take the Bentley?"

"Come on, angel," Crowley insisted, not troubling himself to reply. He grabbed the angel by the wrist and dragged him to the first bench on the side of the path, pushing him down onto the weathered wood.

The park was quiet. The old trees stood well-groomed and dignified, and the light glittered across the pond. A sigh of wind rustled the leaves, and all was still.

Now that he was here, Crowley wasn't sure he had the courage to see his plan through. The angel seated next to him regarded him questioningly, but with his usual patient tolerance.

"Aziraphale," Crowley began after a pregnant pause, "This is nice."

Mentally, Crowley palmed his face. _What kind of asinine statement was that?_ "I mean," the demon continued hurriedly, "I... like going to dinner with you." _I like you._ "I like feeding the ducks with you." _I like you_. "I like having an Arrangement."_ I love you._

The angel smiled. "So do I."

"I don't feel... afraid when I'm with you."

The smile slipped slightly from the angel's features as he began to gather a dim impression of where the conversation might be leading.

"Why couldn't you tell me this at dinner?" he asked guardedly.

"Because I thought you might be upset if I did this in public."

"Did what?"

Crowley slid forward on the bench and pressed his lips to Aziraphale's. The angel stiffened. And he did not relax.

After a moment of increasing awkwardness, Crowley broke the kiss and fell back in his seat, burying his face in his hands.

It was a full minute before Aziraphale spoke.

"What. The. _Hell_. Was. That?"

"A kiss," the demon mumbled into his collar.

"Why did you kiss me, Crowley?" The angel's voice was cold, distant, as if this were a question about something so utilitarian as the weather.

"Because I bloody love you, angel," came the muffled (almost unsteady?) reply.

"You love me," Aziraphale repeated in the same tone of voice. "_You_ love _me_."

"You're not taking it as well as I'd hoped," Crowley chuckled weakly.

"And what exactly was it you'd hoped?" the angel demanded. "That I'd kiss you back? Let you touch me? Give in to you? _Fall?_ I know your wiles, serpent," he said bitterly. "I won't Fall for anyone. Not even you." He stood up and brushed off his camel hair jacket. When he turned to Crowley, his eyes, usually so warm and friendly, were like ice, and it was that more than anything that twisted the dagger suddenly buried hilt-deep in the demon's chest.

"Go home, Crowley," Aziraphale said quietly. "I don't want to see you again."

...

(1) Crowley had at one point in time attempted to persuade the angel to switch to a digital means of recording his sales. Aziraphale had refused, too fond of the traditional written cards to bother with a fussy computerized system. Moreover, though he'd never admit as much to the demon, Aziraphale wasn't sure he could figure out how to run the electronic equivalent even had he wanted to.

(2) And he usually was.

(3) And War and Famine and Pollution

(4) Said wad more than covered dinner and could have adequately tipped every waiter on the Ritz's employ. It also had most definitely not been in Aziraphale's pocket five minutes ago.

* * *

_"Go home, Crowley. I don't want to see you again."_

Crowley was walking. Walking home. Walking home, away from the park, alone. After Aziraphale had had his say, the demon had stood slowly and stalked off, altogether conscious of the hard stare drilling into his back. Only once he was well out of sight did he let the full weight of his despair wash over him. Crowley's shoulders slumped. His hands slid deep into his pockets. The demon's whole person exuded despondency and anger.

He was angry at himself - what on earth had he gone and kissed the angel for? Of course Aziraphale would have been upset; the Heaven Spawn didn't understand a damn thing about carnal pleasures. He should have just told him how he felt and been done with it.

He was angry at Aziraphale - after six thousand years of misadventures, drunk nights in the back of similarly sordid buildings, and cat naps on each other's couches, how could the angel think that he meant him harm? He was an _angel_, a bleeding Principality! Wasn't he supposed to know when Crowley was being truthful? Shouldn't he have gone with the good old "love thy enemy" standby?

He was angry at Capital G(1) - what kind of Father had such a hard time taking constructive criticism that he'd banish his own creations and punish the ones who tried to mend that rift?

None of it was fair.

The fury and anguish crackled around Crowley like electricity, his aura dilated to several times its normal size. People at the end of the block took detours for reasons they did not understand to avoid being on the same street. The sky was black at its edges, the sun already below the horizon. What remained of its redness made the air look like it was burning. Grim satisfaction twisted the demon's lips at the thought. At least the world looked how he felt.

When at last Crowley reached his flat, he found the Bentley parked outside in its usual place. This did not strike the demon as being the least bit odd. He'd wanted the car to be there, so it was. He dragged his index finger across the side and garnered some modicim of miserable comfort from the silky ebony of the metal.

The door to the apartment swung open with a bang before Crowley even finished mounting the steps. As he passed into the feebly lit foyer, it closed behind with a crash equally loud. He took the steps to the second floor with an agonizing slowness, stomping loudly on each one as he ascended. He was pissed, and by Go- Sat- _Somebody_, he was going to make sure that his neighbors were all pissed as well.

In retrospect, attempting to calm down somewhat might have been the wiser option. So full of vicious resentment was he that his emotions crowded out all rational thought and instinctual behaviors that might, in the long run, have saved him considerable trouble. He did not, for instance, notice the fact that the building felt somewhat more malevolent than usual, being thusly overwrought with acrimoniousness himself. He likewise failed to mark the ominous flickering of the hallway fluorescent lights(2).

Therefore, it was not until he reached the landing and discovered his door ajar that he found anything off. As if a bucket of ice water had just been emptied over his head, Crowley felt his train-wrecked thoughts ooze out of his consciousness and drain through the floor. As he too late took stock of the other evidences, his upset was replaced by resignation that weighed in his stomach like lead. He hadn't had any callers from Down There since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, and he doubted very much that Hastur had popped in for a pot of tea and some crap telly.

Ever the stoic one, the demon brushed himself off, attempted to look less like he'd just been rejected by his best(5) friend, and pushed the door open. He was calm, unconcerned, a startling juxtaposition from his demeanor moments before. The strangest bit was, it was genuine. It made a perverted sort of sense that Hell would choose that particular evening to summon him for his Unjust punishment.

"Nice to see you, Hastur," Crowley said evenly as he stepped inside, carefully shutting and latching the door behind him. He did not turn around, but could feel the pulsing of the Duke's aura behind him. His lips were white, but where he supposed he should feel fear he felt nothing but empty numbness.

"I'm afraid I can't say the same," Hastur replied smoothly. "You've been a naughty little demon, haven't you?"

"That is sort of the point of the job title, isn't it?" Crowley asked, turning at last and winking cheekily at his superior.

Hastur's expression soured. "The folks Below aren't too happy about your stunt at the Apocolypse, Crawly. I'd be more careful how you talk to me if I were you."

"If I were you, then you'd be me. And the only reason you'd be careful how you talk is because you're not clever enough to come up with anything scathing to say and have to work hard enough as it is to not look stupid." Crowley knew he was going to regret saying that.

"You're going to regret saying that," Hastur hissed. "I'm supposed to offer you an ultimatum, but I might just kill your corporation right now and say you resisted arrest."

"Whoa, hold on a minute." Crowley held up his hands, mind churning furiously. "An ultimatum? I'd like to hear the terms before we get to the killing bit, if it's not too much for your Disgrace."

Hastur's yellow face stretched in a hideous approximation of a smile, all jagged teeth and acidic saliva. "Not at all, Crawly, not at all. Actually, I'm rather looking forward to seeing your expression when I break it down for you. Here's the _deal_. You've got an angel living in the city. A Principality. Don't try and deny it," he added, eyes gleaming. "We do keep _some_ tabs on what he gets up to. After all, your reports don't always seem to cover all of the details."

_Oh shit. They knew he'd been BSing again._

"Anyhoo," the Duke of Hell continued, "we're aware that he was also involved in the events of the Apocalypse."

"Apocalypse-That-Wasn't," Crowley corrected. Hastur ignored him.

"It seems His Dishonorable Lord of Darkness feels that the lack of punishment administered for this... lapse of judgement is unacceptable. He insists that one of you be brought Down There for questioning regarding your respective loyalties. He adds that He is graciously alotting you the choice of whom I bring in."

There was no doubt in Crowley's mind that "questioning" was absolutely meant to be read as "torture and cruelty beyond your meagre imagination's capacity to envision". The thought made the ichor in his veins run cold. Nevertheless, the idea of Aziraphale in pain, of downy, unkempt feathers being torn mercilessly from their berth, of golden blood pooling in the greedy hands of outstretched demons' claws gave a new meaning to the word "unbearable". Was this why humans found themselves so easily manipulated by love? If so, perhaps he'd cross that off his list of means of temptation, provided he ever had the opportunity to exercise such power again.

"I suppose I'll go quietly," the dark haired demon answered.

Hastur's grin widened. "I'd hoped you'd pick that. I really did. I wanted to watch them break you after what you did to Ligur. 'Course, I'd thought all this _before_ His Dishonor instructed me to do the opposite of whatever you told me. Ah well. Maybe another time then. I suppose I'll just have to go fetch your pretty little angel. Tell me Crawly, is he as delicious as he looks, or haven't you tasted him yet?"

Crowley's brain had shut down about halfway through the Duke's little monologue as he attempted to process what had just happened. He should have seen it coming. What had the angel done to him, that now he was trusting _Hastur_, of all demons, to keep his word?

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Crowley found himself saying.

The Duke's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"Why not? I'll tell you why sodding not. If you make off with Azira- with the angel, Heaven's gonna know who did it. Maybe Hell can stop a Heavenly Invasion, but I guarantee Michael will have a little something to say to the guy who captured his Principality right before he Smites him off this and every conceivable plane of existence."

Hastur looked duly impressed by this logic.

Silver tongued, Crowley continued. "And you're right - what I did to Ligur was utterly inappropriate, even if he was an obnoxious little prat who left a stain on my carpet. It wouldn't be fair for me to walk around free from retribution, now would it?"

"No." Hastur's claws flexed. "It most certainly would not."

Crowley barely had a moment to breathe his last before he found his chest wrapped by talons that seemed to grow longer every second. He barely noticed when his corporation died and slid with a sickening wet squish off the Duke's suddenly sword-like nails. His immortal form began to register pain a minute later as the initial rush of adrenaline wore off.

With Hastur's throaty chuckle ringing in his ears, the smaller demon succumbed to the black stars exploding across his vision. His final thought was a single word, a desperate mental plea to someone he knew would not hear.

_Aziraphale!_

_..._

(1) Crowley was briefly reminded of the Nine Inch Nails song of that title and deemed the metaphor appropriate.

(2) Some entities(3) from Down There still relied on the usual clichés to draw attention(4) to themselves. Crowley thought himself above all that, and generally went in for classy, yet intimidating panache as an attention-grabber.

(3) Read: "most entities"

(4) Read: "fear"

(5) And only

* * *

Aziraphale shivered and drew the eiderdown tighter around his shoulders. His curls hung in flaccid ringlets around his face, limp with dewy sweat. He looked like one in a fever. In reality, the angel was one in a state of anxious denial, or, as a human psychiatrist might have put it, a nervous breakdown.

Long lashes fluttered against flushed skin, and Aziraphale drew a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to steady himself.

_It's for the best,_ he thought. _Did you really ever believe that the two of you could be friends for the next millennia?_

If he was honest with himself(1), Aziraphale had always been afraid something like this would happen. He knew Crowley was bound to be attracted to him - it was only a matter of time before the demon chose to act on it. Frankly, Aziraphale thought himself lucky: Crowley had only snogged him rather than try to take him at him at his advantage. Things could have been worse. Much worse.

The angel let his wings burst in an explosion of feathers from his shoulders, ignoring the fact for once that such an action was bound to wreak havoc on the back of his tartan nightgown(2). He examined the milky white feathers for any trace of taint. A number of them fell out when he ran his hand through the soft fluff, but after a moment's panic, he attributed this to his poor grooming habits. He let out a small sigh of relief. Clearly, the folks Upstairs recognized that the kiss hadn't been his fault. Temptation had met Resistance. Resistance had won.

Aziraphale resolutely ignored the fraction of his consciousness that remembered the dry warmth of Crowley's lips, the sunflower gold of hooded snake's eyes, the expression of total dejection when Aziraphale froze. That was Temptation trying to convince him that he'd made a mistake, that somehow, impossibly, Crowley loved... him.

The angel shook his head, curls bouncing, burying his face in his hands. Unbidden, his mind drew a parallel to Crowley on the park bench, sitting in precisely the same position. Was it possible the demon felt as much confusion, as much distress as he did now?_ No_, Aziraphale answered himself fiercely, _he doesn't. He can't. He hasn't got free will, he is physically incapable of feeling love, he..._

His stream of consciousness was abruptly interrupted by another mental image, this time of a sarcastic demon figure standing side by side with an angel as Lucifer rose out of the ground to have a chat with His Son. If that wasn't the ultimate betrayal of sides, what was? Was not that direct disobedience the application of free will?

This time, the angel's mental protestations were marginally weaker. _A lapse in judgement(3)_, he thought. _The rebellious streak is inherent in his nature. It was practically guaranteed to interfere eventually. Besides, it's not like he had to actually stand and fight, anyway. The Antichrist took care of that. And now he has to get back into Hell's good(4) books, so he tries to Fell an angel._

This line of reasoning briefly shut up the other portion of Aziraphale's consciousness. Feeling somewhat improved, he wiped his brow and stood, heading to the water pot to fix himself a cuppa cocoa. As the Heavenly scent(5) filled the small back room, he began to relax and winched in his wings. As he raised the rim of his mug to his lips, however, his mind finally came through with its rebuttal.

_Crowley, lost, forlorn, guileless. "I bloody love you, angel."_

Aziraphale lowered the green mug to the tabletop. The hand that released it was trembling. It all came down to that, didn't it? Crowley said he loved him. Aziraphale wouldn't - couldn't - believe him. Crowley was a demon, and therefore was only capable of doing Evil. Lust was Evil, but that was not what the demon claimed he felt. Love was Good, and if Crowley felt Love, then he had to be Good, at least to a point. Paradoxes. Impossibilities.

_"I always knew there was a spark of Goodness in you."_

The angel's own statement reverberated through his head like thunder. He realized in a disoriented sort of way that he was back to breathing heavily and leaning on the table for support.

_"I don't think it'ssss actually possible for you to do Wrong."_

Words from the Beginning. Words spoken by a small serpent at a Garden's edge. At the time, they had been a source of comfort. Now, somewhat more accustomed to Crowley's mannerisms, Aziraphale's memory detected an undercurrent of sarcasm that he'd been oblivious to at the time. Could angels, in fact do Wrong? Had he done Wrong in sending the demon away? Certainly not. But if he hadn't, then why did it _feel_ Wrong?

The plump angel pursed his lips. Directed at others, it was an expression that generally conveyed severe disapproval, likely to be followed by a lecture(6). Had Aziraphale lived in a less ideal world, he might have said something bracing to himself, like, "Cheer up, old boy, and drink your cocoa. You're worth more than twenty Crowleys," and then gone off to dust something.

However, Aziraphale's intrinsically optimistic character believed in an ineffable Plan, and such Plans made provisions for Coincidence, for Chance, and for Narrative Convenience. Thusly, it happened at that moment that a curtain of blue light spilled down over a brass circle laid in the floor, half buried under stacks of parchment paper and assorted candle stubs.

"Prince Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. We are the Metatron. We have a message for you."

The angel jumped violently, sloshing hot chocolate on the floor.

"Oh, er, your Grace, it's, er, an honor as always," he spluttered, scrambling to push the clutter out of the circle.

"Your circle is untidy, Aziraphale. Cleanliness is next to Godliness."

"Er, yes, um, quite so, your Grace. I'll see to it at the first available opportunity."

"Come closer, Aziraphale."

The angel, after moving his latest treatise on the works of Bach, had shuffled backwards until he ran into the table, spilling more of his drink and staining his immaculate white trousers. Now he creeped forward warily, remembering too well the disaster that had gone down the last time he'd had a chat with the Metatron. He wasn't sure he could talk Adam into restoring his bookshop _again_.

"You, er, had a message?" he asked, hoping that he wasn't about to be whisked back to Heaven for a debriefing on some new international crisis(7).

"Yes. Our intelligence has reported that a high ranking official from Down There had been dispatched to meet with the demon Crawly residing near your offices. It is presumed that the topic of their discussion is to be your detention and questioning."

Aziraphale's stomach experienced a sinking sensation remarkably similar to how it had felt aboard the Titanic(8). The niggling Doubt in the back of his mind evaporated. He'd been betrayed. Obviously, Crowley had contacted his superiors after his ploy at dinner failed. Aziraphale grit his teeth. How could he have been so stupid? He'd very nearly been had.

"Uh, Aziraphale?"

"Sorry, your Grace," the angel murmured with a demure air so sudden it was alarming. "Don't worry about it - I can take care of this."

"You are sure? These are powerful demons - perhaps we should send an Archangel to assist you."

"Thank you for your concern," Aziraphale said in his most pleasant, sincere voice(9), "but I would really prefer to do the smiting myself."

"So be it. Contact us when the problem is rectified."

The blue light faded, and the circle was empty. Aziraphale did not even bother returning his papers to their place. He was going to call Heaven the moment this six thousand year-old problem was cleared up, and he wasn't expecting it would be very long.

...

(1) A trait which was, counterintuitively, far less present in the angel than in his demonic counterpart.

(2) He was also fastidiously ignoring the fact that Crowley wasn't going to be there to miracle the rips closed for him.

(3) Even had Aziraphale been aware that at that moment, Hastur was using the same expression in his discussion with Crowley, it is unlikely that he would have recognized the irony.

(4) Bad

(5) Capital letters. Chocolate was, in Aziraphale's expert opinion, one of the Lord's finest creations.

(6) Funnily enough, Crowley himself had seen this particular countenance quite a bit.

(7) The trouble in the Ukraine would be requiring his attention in the near future, but Aziraphale wasn't to know that yet.

(8) A story for another time, and one of Crowley's favorites.

(9) This was the voice telemarketers generally heard seconds before the angel hung up the landline.

* * *

Crowley woke, and then immediately wished he hadn't.

_It could be worse_, he reminded himself. He tried not to write in the addendum that read "_It will get worse_".

He was in pain. So, so much pain. As a general rule, Crowley did not envy mortals. Now, however, he wondered if death was less uncomfortable, and if so, whether it was possible for him to get in on it.

Curled protectively in the corner of the small, dark cell, Crowley looked down slowly, a little afraid of what he was going to see. Hellfire light flickered through the crack under the door; by its yellowish glow, the demon could discern a large, dark smear on the gritty stone beneath him.

_Not a bit good_, he thought.

Slowly, Crowley's eyes travelled upwards to his legs, and he noted the long, parallel gouges running up his thighs. A flood of unpleasant memories assaulted him before he could repress them in his subconscious.

_A flurried rush of clawed hands reaching, grabbing, dragging him Down. A heat so intense it transcends white hot and turns midnight black. Blood everywhere, choking him, drowning him, and pain that lanced through him like electricity._

It was all standard fare, sort of the basic package for the Damned. Crowley had a feeling that as soon as They realized he was awake, They'd send someone to give him the package upgrade, whether he wanted it or not. He shook his head, trying to clear it, as a fresh wave of immortal terror swept over him.

The jagged cuts continued all the way up his torso - his Armani suit, which he had attempted to replicate even over his True Form, was history(1), hanging over his desecrated chest in tatters.

_Definitely not good_, Crowley concluded.

Why was it now that he thought of Aziraphale? It was the angel's fault he was here. Why, then, did the petulant, childish part of him cling to the angel's memory like a lifeline?

Shifting his weight against the wall, Crowley drew his knees to his chest. For the first time in a long time(2), Crowley wanted to believe that a Higher Power had some eternal Plan where things worked out and resolved themselves in the way that didn't end in fire and brimstone. Unfortunately, Crowley had spent a long time(3) considering the nature of ineffability and had rather decided that if He had a Plan, then it was a very convoluted one that rarely panned out well for anyone involved and was, statistically, the most unfair composition in the known universe.

So rather than pray to anyone residing Up There, the demon consigned himself to thinking of his friend and wondering if Aziraphale would even notice he'd gone. Fractals of thought spiraled around him: the Egyptians and their general approval of all things serpentine or with wings - those years had been good for the pair of them. France during the revolutions; plenty of blood and good absinthe. And in all that time, one figure was omnipresent, shortish and blonde and too fond of chocolate.

Crowley's eyes closed, and he excused the moisture dusting his eyelashes as the product of physical discomfort.

...

(1) In taking a second look at what remained of the stylish, expensive fabric, Crowley downgraded its status from "History" to "Relic of Ye Olde Infernal Garbage Dump". The use to which the cloth had been put was truly unfortunate.

(2) Six thousand years, in fact.

(3) Coincidentally, this also totaled to about six thousand years.

* * *

When next Crowley was shoved roughly into the cell, he did not even make a pretense of remaining upright. He collapsed to the floor before his captors were even out the door.

"Pathetic." Hastur's voice scarcely registered, and the smaller demon did not bother searching for the energy to make a sarcastic reply.

"Can't take his medicine," sneered one of the lower ranking officials; an Earl, Crowley thought.

"That's what comes of too much field work," someone agreed sagely. "Yeh start goin' soft."

Crowley heard the words but missed most of the meaning behind them. His skin (Did he still _have_ skin? He wasn't sure anymore.) was raw, and felt like it had been flayed, if one generally flayed things with whips wrought of flame and iron(1). Moreover, his wings, generally respectable examples of fine plumage, had most assuredly been ruined. His shoulders ached worse than the time he'd lived a month off nothing but absinthe and cigarillos.

As the door slammed shut, bolting itself from the outside, Crowley's eyelids slowly closed, blotting out a waking nightmare in exchange for a dreaming one.

For a moment, the demon thought for sure that he remembered something of light, of happiness and affection. Then that too faded, and left in its wake an all-consuming cruel blackness.

...

Aziraphale was many things. One of these things was cautious. Upon approaching Crowley's flat, he took careful pains to not make the demon's own mistake and thus extended a tendril of thought to the apartment building before him. Evidence of Crowley's occupancy was literally everywhere - the residence exuded low-grade evil visible on the Astral Plane like smog.

Today, however, there was something else. A greater malevolence hung in the air, a pall that asphyxiated and devoured all at once. The angel recognized that signature - Hastur, Duke of Hell. It seemed that Heaven's intelligence had actually been accurate for a change.

With a whispered polite request, the front door swung open silently. It was stronger inside, the feeling of Despair, and it mingled with another, unidentifiable Wrongness, turning the very air sour. Aziraphale tiptoed silently across the threshold, shivering slightly. Loud arguments could be heard issuing from inside several of the disparate apartments, though the occupants quieted a little as the angel passed by.

The stairs looming above him, Aziraphale began his ascent treading all the more carefully, drawing his aura as tightly to his skin as he could. The concentrated energy made him glow ever so slightly, but in the angel's opinion, it was more important that he remain shielded from demonic senses as long as possible. If a mortal saw him, he could erase their memory easily enough.

About half-way up the staircase, it occurred to him that he had no idea what he was going to do when he actually reached Crowley's quarters. He'd had his brushes with the malignant immortal, of course, but ever since the Arrangement, Aziraphale hadn't had much cause to fight demons. He'd never been an especially good fighter to begin with(2), and now he was looking at odds theoretically two against one, with one of the two being immensely powerful. Moreover, though Aziraphale wouldn't quite let himself contemplate it too deeply, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to fight Crowley. The thought drove another spike of betrayal through his chest. After all they had been through, the angel had believed they'd had... Something. How could he have let himself be played like that?

The second floor of the establishment was portentously silent. Crowley's door was locked, though this of course posed little problem to the angel. A gentle touch and the lock clicked open. Before he pushed it open, Aziraphale paused, gathering as much angelic power to him as he could. He had surprise on his side, and it wouldn't do to waste the opportunity.

When he felt ready, he kicked the door wide, silently apologizing to the old wood. The being that crossed into the spacious flat was not the usual quiet, bookish creature that inhabited a small London bookshop. Aziraphale's blue eyes blazed with light, his wings were straining to manifest themselves, and his halo was blinding in its brightness. The real change, though, was in his demeanor, poised and ready to smite anything even vaguely reptilian. Danger scrawled itself over every inch of his small frame.

For a minute, the angel stood unmoving in the doorway, prepared to strike and not yet comprehending the fact that there was nothing to strike at. This only occurred to him later(3).

Stepping cautiously into the chic living room, the angel examined his surroundings. White plush carpet. White walls. White drapes. Black entertainment center with a flat screen television the size of a small window. Black settee. Black coffee table. A houseplant(4). And absolute silence.

It was the silence that unnerved the angel the most. Crowley's flat was not a loud place, but it was rarely devoid of noise, either. He'd have Beethoven playing softly in the background, or Queen if he'd left his Beethoven CDs in the Bentley too long. The demon had tried white noise in the 90's but had decided it failed to grate on Aziraphale's nerves enough and grated on his too much, so he'd given it up. There was something profoundly wrong, Aziraphale decided.

It was then that he spotted a bit of discoloration on the carpet, hidden mostly from view by the settee. Such a thing would have been dismissed anywhere else, but Crowley was as fastidious about his apartment's appearance as he was about his own. Only when he'd permanently discorporated Ligur had he been left with a stain he couldn't miracle away. Now Aziraphale found his feet drawn inexorably toward the sofa, though he had a sudden strong impulse to not look.

When he did look(5), he very nearly screamed. Nearly. His mouth even opened. But his mind had frozen in place and forgot to remind his vocal cords to make noise. It's just as well that he was immortal, because he likewise forgot how to breathe, and so stopped.

Crowley's corporation was spread-eagled on the floor with half a dozen holes punched through his chest, his sunglasses askew and his jet colored hair all disordered. With his Sight, Aziraphale registered the traces of evil all over his friend's corpse, and now he understood exactly what that other Wrongness he'd felt was. Death. Death pervaded the room, filled it, spilled out into the hall and down the stair.

He'd missed something. Heaven had missed something. Crowley was dead, obviously at Hastur's hand, and the only logical explanation Aziraphale could see was...

"Oh _bugger_."

NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

"You," the angel spat, spinning around to face Azrael. "Where'd they take him?"

Death shrugged.

YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE. THOUGH I SUSPECT OUR GUESSES WOULD BE THE SAME.

"Hell is vast," Aziraphale said through clenched teeth. "_Where did they take him?_ You go everywhere, see everything. You have to know."

Azrael crossed his arms. SO WHAT IF I KNOW? WHY WOULD I TELL YOU?

The power that the blonde angel had summoned earlier blazed around him now, tinted with a different emotion: fury.

"You will tell me," he hissed, "because he's not yours to keep. He isn't some human shuffling off the mortal coil to go spend eternity Elsewhere. And you will tell me because if you do not, I will ensure that you have Heaven and Hell to pay for it."

CAREFUL. KEEP TALKING LIKE THAT AND YOU COULD FALL.

"I'm an angel. It's my job to thwart demonic wiles. This was a demon's doing. Ergo, I am duty-bound to undo it."

Death looked mildly apprehensive at this pronouncement, probably because it was, in technicality, true. And his superiors had a thing for technicalities.

HYPOTHETICALLY, THEY TOOK HIM TO DIS - TO THE DUNGEONS. I CAN'T TELL YOU MORE THAN THAT.

"That'll do. Thank you kindly for your assistance in this little matter. Clean up and get out of here."

Normally, Aziraphale wouldn't be deliberately sarcastic to the leader of Hell's Angels, but he felt that circumstances required somewhat drastic measures be taken(6). He'd behaved like a complete prat to his best(7) friend, and his friend had apparently paid an Unholy price for it. Angels are prone to feeling guilt. This particular angel could currently be described accurately as the manifestation of Guilt, and was acting accordingly. Hell wasn't going to know what hit it.

...

(1) The iron was the worst bit. It played absolute havoc with the darker powers, and Crowley was certain that his True Form was going to have hideous scars until the This-Time-For-Real-Guys-Apocalypse.

(2) The first time he'd run into Crowley (then Crawly) outside of Eden, he'd fumbled his thrust and dropped his (non-flaming) sword. Fortunately, Crowley was just as green (only in the metaphorical sense by this point) and so had not done much better in combat. After a brief, awkward tussle, they'd called a draw and rescheduled for the following afternoon.

(3) After about ten minutes, in fact. Aziraphale was undoubtedly intelligent. But there was no good in letting one's guard down prematurely, and anyway, time has very limited meaning to immortals. There were days where ten minutes might as well have been ten seconds.

(4) Angel Wing Begonias, in fact. Cultivating them gave the demon and endless source of amusement.

(5) Curiosity is not a common trait in angels, and with good reason. It's generally the sort of thing that incites their Sauntering Vaguely Downwards.

(6) Besides, Crowley wasn't there and someone needed to be acerbic.

(7) And only

* * *

Crowley's return to the realm of the waking was punctuated by sharp bursts of discomfort. At first, he thought he was perhaps recovering from an especially appalling hangover, but realized when he could not just will the pain away that that must not be the case. The world was sideways. Stone was pressed to his cheek, a vertical strip of light running in front of him.

His eyes focused, and Crowley discovered that he was laying on his side, facing the door. His wings (or what was left of them) were draped half-hazardly across him, making a valiant effort at shielding his ravaged torso from further punishment.

What had woken him? For some reason, that seemed important. There was a sound in the background which he had hitherto been ignoring - screaming, and the clash of weapons. The former was not unusual in Dis. The latter was. What in Somebody's name could that be?

Blessing under his breath, the demon fought to regain some semblance of an upright position. He failed, managing to push himself off the ground high enough for it to hurt when his arms gave out and he fell back to the floor.

The noises were getting louder. He could pick out individual exclamations of distress and the clang of swords crossing. Was it just him, or was the glow under the door getting brighter? He felt like he should care. He found he didn't have the energy to. If someone was coming to try and finish him off, so much the better. In the meantime, he stared numbly at the cell door.

The glow was definitely getting brighter, and it was less reddish, more white. It also wasn't flickering like firelight. There was a voice shouting things at the guards outside. Did he know that voice? It felt like he did, but he couldn't remember. He didn't know if he remembered anything anymore. Had there been a time once when he didn't hurt? All he could feel was suffering; every orifice of his person shrieked with it.

An infrablack bolt of pain shot across his temples as someone pounded at the door.

"Crowley?!"

That was his name, or at least he was pretty sure it was.

"Yesssssss?" He trailed off in a lisp at the end, unwilling to make a stronger attempt at speech. He didn't know if the person at the door could hear him or not. He also didn't know if he cared.

"Crowley, hang in there!"

Ah, apparently they had heard.

The pounding intensified. Crowley rather wished it would stop. It was giving him a brutal headache which was just unbearable when layered atop everything else.

He watched as the door bent slowly on its hinges. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. In spite of himself, a minute sense of wonder had snuck up on him.

Eventually, the lock gave. It had to, when an unstoppable force met an only semi-immovable object. The heavy wood burst open, revealing nothing but a pure white conflagration of Light, bright as the fulmination of a dying sun gone supernova. Something about it moved the demon in a way he had not felt moved in an age. It burned away the apathy that had held his mind prisoner and let loose the memories that a shattered heart had buried. That Light had a Name.

"Crowley?" the Light asked. "Oh Heaven help us, Crowley, what did they _do_ to you?"

A figure stepped forward, the whiteness dimming respectfully. The figure had silver-blonde hair and (bloodshot?) blue eyes. It had wings and a white toga the likes of which had gone out of style centuries ago. A flaming sword was held absently in one hand, as if in afterthought.

"Aziraphale," Crowley croaked.

The angel fell to his knees, gently scooping the demon up in his arms. Crowley winced, more out of habit than actual discomfort. It didn't hurt when the angel touched him, not really. "Angel," he rasped. "You came."

"'Course." There was something oddly affected about his voice. "Crowley..." The angel's voice cracked saying his name. "God, Crowley, I'm so, so sorry."

The demon stared upwards, a slight frown tugging at his lips. There was water streaming from Aziraphale's eyes - was the angel _crying_? Over _him_?

"Don' go all weepy 'n me, angel. 'M a'right."

Aziraphale nestled his face in Crowley's hair. "Come on. We're going home."

...

"Home" turned out to be the small bedroom above Fallen Angel Books. Crowley did not discover this, however, until he woke up the next morning wrapped in a pastel quilt that looked like it was cobbled together by somebody's grandmother(1). Everything ached, but not to the same horrific degree as before. He was able to sit himself up and take stock of his surroundings (which were pleasant) and the extent of his injuries (which were numerous). Aziraphale had evidently broken out the first aid kit, for every one of the wounds he'd been subjected to had been carefully bound with gauze. The demon caught himself blushing as it dawned on him that some of the bandages were in rather compromising positions.

A cup of tea sat next to the bed on the nightstand, still steaming faintly. Crowley smiled. That was the angel all over. Lifting the china, grimacing as the motion pulled at his bandages, he sipped the Earl Grey and failed to be a bit surprised when Aziraphale chose precisely that moment to enter(2).

"Good morning," the angel said, looking almost... shy?

"'Morning." The demon made sure to sound offhand, suddenly very, very conscious that he was a convalescent stuck laying in his rescuer's bed. It must have worked, because when Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed, his stance relaxed somewhat.

"Thanks for the tea," Crowley added, as if in afterthought.

"I love you, too," the angel blurted.

"... That's an unusual response to a thank you."

Aziraphale huffed. "You know what I mean. I couldn't believe it before, when you told me how you felt - I don't know why. And I'm sorry. I can't even tell you how sorry I am. I thought... I thought you were trying to... to make me Fall, you know? I should've known better, but I didn't. If you're upset, I understand entirely. I mean, I can't forgive myself, so why should you want to?"

The angel lapsed into quiet, and for a while neither of them spoke. Eventually, though, Crowley said,

"You know what the real problem is? The real problem is that this wasn't even your fault. We've both been conditioned to mistrust each other and even after six thousand years, some things are just ingrained instinctually, you know? Good and Evil are just names for sides, but those sides work pretty hard to sow divisiveness. I'm not mad, angel. I'm just glad that we have the chance to meet here, in the middle."

He met Aziraphale's eyes and found that the angel was regarding him with the sappiest, happiest smile he'd ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. Crowley wasn't sure if it made him want to vomit or kiss him, but seeing how well that worked out last time, the demon settled on reaching for the angel's hand.

"Er, Crowley..." the angel said, suddenly looking more than a little coy, "I was wondering if maybe I... Well, in retrospect, that little moment on the park bench was actual quite nice and I was wondering..."

The demon assumed a mock pout. "I thought you were worried about Falling and all that nonsense."

"Well..." Aziraphale scooted closer. "I've been thinking about it, and if I kiss you of my own volition, then it's not really you tempting me, is it?"

"Er..." Frankly, Crowley didn't see that it made a difference, but for the moment, he was willing to go along with whatever warped logic the angel needed to bend to his strict moral principles. He didn't have a whole lot of time to contemplate the greater metaphysical mysteries, however, because Aziraphale rather suddenly leaned forward and pressed rosebud pink lips on his own.

Taken aback briefly, the demon quickly regained his self-control and kissed back enthusiastically. He could feel his own skin flushing and sensed the angel's doing the same. Pupils dilated, pulse rates increased, and breathing was a task they abandoned wholeheartedly.

Eventually, Aziraphale broke the contact, leaning back with a deeply contented expression on his face. Crowley let out a small whine of protest, at which the angel patted his hand gently.

"That certainly is enjoyable," the angel said matter-of-factly. "I can see now why humans like it so much."

"They've got some other pretty enjoyable methods of entertaining themselves, too. Any chance of trying it out?" He wiggled his eyebrows in a way which was meant to be suggestive, but the effect was marred somewhat by the blush on his face.

Aziraphale leaned back towards him and for a hopeful moment, Crowley thought he was going to snog him again.

Instead, the angel whispered, "Oh, I'd say there's more than a _chance_. I have to finish apologizing, after all. Unfortunately, you're not really in a condition right now to accept my apology, are you, dear?"

Crowley's jaw about sank through the bed and hit the floor as the angel withdrew. Aziraphale left, turning and giving him a saucy wink before shutting the door, and the demon grinned widely. Most demons would have been terrified by the prospect of being trapped, wounded, in an angel's territory, but something gave Crowley the impression that he was going to enjoy the experience immensely.

...

(1) In fact, it was Aziraphale himself who'd sewn it a few Christmases ago. The angel had intended it as a gift for Crowley but had decided after some not-so subtle hints that the color wasn't going to complement the demon's décor and had diplomatically kept the quilt for himself and bought Crowley a bottle of fine wine instead.

(2) Indeed, Crowley almost suspected that the angel had been waiting outside the entire time until he heard the quiet clink of the cup on the saucer.


End file.
